Night Hunter
by Sonaris
Summary: He goes back in time out of curiosity and selfishness; unwilling to change a thing, but as a deal with Death goes awry, perhaps change was all that he needed. In this case, Harry had greatly overestimated himself. But through the rebirth he has gained a family he never had...perhaps change wasn't so bad after all. Time Travel. Hogwarts 1940, Tom Riddle's Era.
1. O' Death

**Teach Us How to Outgrow this Madness**

* * *

**AN:** Rebirth. language, Time Travel, Au. I don't exactly have an idea for what the pairing will be; perhaps there won't be one at all, however you, the readers, are free to suggest.

**Pronunciations:** Antare:_ Ahn-Tah-Ree_, Ashyr - _Ah-Sheer, _Avior - _Ay-vi-or_

**Summary: Rebirth.** Harry was a dreamer, a dreamer leading a dull life at the age of thirty-three. It was a bore, and he would have hated to admit, but the adrenaline rushes from the war left him in a yearning._ It was to his luck when Death had accepted his request and sent him back in time, as it was to his suspicion when the Deathly Hallows weren't confiscated for price. Now in 1926 and unrestricted by his title, he re-enters Hogwarts - except this time, from the shadows. _

So many possibilities, although one mistake could destroy him or the world He would carve out a name for himself; better late than regretful.

* * *

It was two decades ago when he had won the war; when he was the golden boy, the brightest star for the wizarding community. Although many people had died, and the light suffered as hard - if not harder - than the dark, the main players of each side had suffered the most.

He had been thankful, when the people dearest to him were still alive and with him. Hermione, Ron and Ginny. He had recalled his teenage crush. He knew he had affections for her, but he was hesitant and later on, that moment of hesitance proved him thankful.

Harry Potter had never loved Ginny romantically. As one of his best friends? Yes, certainly. But his affections were of friendlier ones, not to mention slight infatuation due to the influx of teenage hormones, not to mention the desperation he felt - the need for someone to love - in the midst of the hysteria. No, he didn't see her in that light - he never did.

Dark hair still as tussled as ever, he found himself - predictably - an Auror. Chasing villainous figures, he fought them all off valiantly enough - not once using a dark spell. His name was the epitome of all that was good and holy, it seemed, and some part of him - deep inside, hated it all. It was at night, when he was all alone, had he been ambushed by around three dark supporters.

Knowing that he wouldn't have stood against them with his admittedly small repertoire of light spells and disarms, Harry knew he would have had to try for something...different.

One look at the offenders in front of him; just one look at their faces had told him that they would stop at nothing besides death to have him dead. He stared on, interest and adrenaline flowing through him as it had just decades ago. After so long, it had taken a near death situation to get his heart beating and blood rushing. He stared on and then with lightning fast reflexes swung his hand in such a sharp fashion that the Elder wand swung from his sleeves and into his open palms.

As soon as he felt the wood graze against his skin, Harry pointed the wand, jumping back and uttered an incantation.

_'Avada Kedavra'. _

It finished as soon as it had come; the pulsing green light flashing from the tip of his wand and flew directly towards the rogue wizards. It was a clear-cut hit and the three didn't even seem to have registered the attack as their bodies fell onto the ground, eyes dull, body lifeless, only shock colouring their pale faces.

Harry stared on, panting, his heart ringing in his ears. His wand was still in his hand, pointed at where the bodies once stood, his position unchanging. The incantation a reverberation in his mind, and the pure green of pulsing magic replaying through his widened eyes. Sweat dripped down his body and as the pitter patter of rain fell on his skin, they did little to cool his too-warm body.

He felt the heat rise beneath his skin as his blood and heart pulsed erratically. The wizard slowly dropped his wand hand before using tentative fingers to touch his skin; the warmth inside not translating to his cool, smooth skin.

Coughing, Harry backed himself against the wall, taking comfort in its cool, hard properties. Feeling the hysteria rise, he let out a shaky breath, contemplating silently about his course of actions, such as; why had he chosen specifically, the_ Avada Kedavra_? It was out of impulse, but impulses were usually immediately based on the subconsciousness of said person.

Harry shook his head, eyes closed and headache rising. He didn't want to go delve any deeper into that...but that _power. _Staring at the elder wand resting coolly in his sweaty palms, his body relieved a phantasm of the adrenaline the spur of dark magicks had sent him. For the longest while, he felt _alive;_ excited.

The war, it seemed, broke him in the most twisted sense. Perhaps broken isn't the right word;_altered_. He had spent his life battling dark forces and fighting near powerful blasts of dark magicks, that they had started tainting him slowly and slowly. The fact that he had kept a part of Voldemort's soul within him for a decade and three-fourths; amplifying the ambient throws of 'evil' power.

* * *

Faded green eyes looked tiredly on, holding a shadow of a glimmer they once held. He looked on, to the Deathly Hallows; the hazardous trio. It was a secret he held to himself - that the Deathly Hallows were far from destroyed, no matter how valiant his attempts were.

It was a secret he kept dearly, as the dangers of greed would easily dilute even the most 'pure' claimed. He was sure, that if their functions were to be revealed, even Mrs Weasley would have been enticed by the idea.

He fingered the ring, and stared hungrily at the other two Hallows before him. Twisted, he had become. The power granted would be tempting; should he accept. How funnily hypocritical and selfish of him, but he couldn't hold back if he had tried.

He wanted to go back; but not to his time. Perhaps, to the one where the crux of the problem was held; Riddle's Era at Hogwarts. But that would mean he would have to let everyone he knew now, go… Maybe he should just stay put?

No, Harry wouldn't allow himself to slowly deteriorate. Head held high and eyes full of selfishness and self-loathing. Harry calmly slipped the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand, feeling the cool gold; soothing to his skin. It was a perfect fit.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Huh.

Unexpected, however, convenient nonetheless.

Next, he held onto the elder wand - in pristine shape, even after the numerous times he had snapped it in frustration; it always managed to find its way back to him, unblemished and willing.

Power rushed through him; impulsive. Controlling. Addicting.

Harry gasped, his eyes widened but he didn't let go. Only tightening his grip upon the wood. This was power play. He was having a fight over dominance with...a wand? It would have been shameful had he lost.

Thankfully, he didn't.

Still looking at the Elder wand in distrust, Harry wiped his palm and the wand upon his jeans of the sweat that accumulated in his hands. He huffed, before placing the Elder within his right hand's sleeve, before placing his phoenix core wand at the back pocket of his jeans. He hummed in approval. Good. That will allow the assumption that he is weak and inexperienced.

Harry placed his invisibility cloak within his brief case and three bags of gold, along with forged copies of information and qualifications - just in case. That time was the time of war, and he wouldn't risk any disqualifications, along with being homeless.

He raised his hand before pressing his mouth against the cool, marked stone.

With a baritone voice, he spoke.

"Perhaps time had addled my brain but it is my wish – and so I stand by it. Take me back in time, however don't you worry. My demands are purely superficial and it is the adrenaline that I crave, and not change. For you, Death, I know it is not too much to ask."

It was brash of him. Stupid, not courageous; to have confronted Death that way. Harry couldn't bring himself to be afraid but he did see the fault in his words.

Death arrived a man dressed in a black suit and nothing more; his skin stretched upon his bones; a dauntingly thin appearance, ghastly. Harry looked steadily on, eyes half lidded as if to express a relaxed aura, attempting to hide the nerve beneath his skin, resounding in his thudding heart. Perhaps he should be worried, when Death held a mischievous upward tilt of his mouth - not enough to seem neutral, and yet not enough to be dubbed as a smile or a grin.

"Ah, . I was wondering when you would have had called me onto your service. His smile widened fractionally as he gazed at the middle-aged man. "But of course," the figure dubbed as Death went on, "your wish...your _desire _can be easily obeyed, _master._" The last word was spoken in a bitter-sweet tone, unnervingly polite with a mocking edge.

Harry's brows furrowed in question. "I feel as if there is a...but coming up," he intoned, staring at Death with heavy suspicion.

This time, the ethereal figure really did grin - wickedly, at that. Teeth of pure ivory shone unnaturally in the dark of the night as he watched the figure compose their sentence.

"How astute of you, young master." This time, Death Chuckled. Slightly unnerved, Harry took a step backwards in preparation...just in case.

Catching on the guarded expression of his master, Death rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"But of course, I would never dream to _harm_ you, master." The male vessel looked towards his trunk, seemingly contemplative. "I see that you are packed and already to go, and I will send you back to the time of your choice...what was it...ah, yes. Nineteen twenty-six was it? A peculiar time, although it does not escape me, master, that your nemesis - one by the name of _Lord _Voldemort was birthed. Just what do you wish to do?"

Slightly miffed at the hard accusation, Harry replied in his defence.

"As I had stated earlier," he murmured with a monotonous voice, "I have no intention of intervention whatsoever. The timeline is their own, I would do nothing to it." He leveled Death with a steady gaze before soldiering on.

"I only seek the rush, and my heart seems too steady and empty to desire for anything but adrenaline, and change is one of them."

As the vessel stared at him, quietened, the silence lapsed into seconds and swiftly onto minutes. About two minutes later, Death chuckled again, and yet again, it was as unnerving as the midnight shrieks of crows and animals.

"Of course, young master," Death soothed. Harry frowned; the tone Death had used...made him seem like a petulant child to a humouring adult. No, he didn't like it at all - for even with his title of master, it still felt as if he was the one played, as if _he_ was the one inferior. But of course, in the light of Death, who would be equal, but life itself? And that entity was something Harry was not. So he had, in calm acceptance and reluctance, played along with the facade of being a master.

"Let us start with your journey, then." And without further ado or warning, Death's hand struck out, easily crushing Harry's rib cage and pushing effortlessly through the muscle tissues and through his heart. Harry looked wide eyed down at the appendage struck through his chest in shock, the midnight moon cascading on the paleness of his skin as blood ran like rivers down his ragged clothes; dripping on the hard, concrete floor. Suddenly, his eyelids weighed a tonne.

In the midst of the blackout; the unconsciousness of his own mind, he heard the skeletal vessel speak, sounding as amused as ever.

"But of course, young master. It was in your own fault, that you had not raised any terms nor conditions for this _great _adventure."

Above it all, after those words were uttered, Harry felt himself burn, but he couldn't scream. He had tried to, although the silence rung out into white flares. He screamed and flailed as he felt _his _body disintegrate into dust; fading into oblivion.

But he knew it wouldn't be the end. He would still return to the specific time, as Death had wanted him to - however, he just didn't know what terms. For all Harry knew, that blasted entity could have sent him back as a flobberworm of all things.

He was afraid, and he loved it.

Every moment of his death and rebirth; when he felt himself being torn to pieces; as if thrown down a shredder, or mauled by a rabid dog.

Harry closed his eyes with a ironic smile, as if to sleep peacefully... before he let his consciousness slip in peace.

* * *

Alarms were ringing and many voices were heard through his all-too sensitive ears. He couldn't open his eyes, nor could he move. Harry felt as if he as paralysed on a whole, and whenever he tried with renewed effort, it would feel as if he was confined in a tight, hot and moist space. Gagging at the pungent smell, he immediately regretted said action as he felt himself enveloped with a sticky substance that persistently clung on to his skin.

But when he felt himself being pulled physically from the tight space and into a foreign opening, he couldn't help but let loose a rigid scream; which at first sounded like an abysmal attempt of mewling, before he had tried again. An ear piercing shriek could be heard by his ears. Yes, that was better. In the midst of all the chaos that he could have sensed through his blinded senses, he heard lively, excited voices in the background, surrounding him.

Worried and panicked, he tried to squirm but found strong hands - ginormous and clutching around his sides, restraining him from any disagreeing movement.

"My, isn't he a lively one!" Piped a clear, melodic and feminine voice. She sounded exhausted but happy, nonetheless. "It's good to see successful carriage from Antare, even if after many miscarriages and still-borne.

"Yes, yes! It must be the luck of the gods!" A male voice exclaimed happily, getting closer and closer to where Harry had depicted himself as.

"What luck, what luck! And no problems too. You have a yourself a happy, healthy boy, madam Avior!" The voice was lower, male.

Confused and unable to depict his current situation, Harry decided to just lay there helplessly...or at least, until something could have been done with his current...predicament.

The voice of the male had been quick to be hushed by the surrounding figures.

"Quiet!" A low, smooth voice of another enthused. "Do you not see Mrs. Avior resting? The carriage had been successful, yes, but we shall not celebrate yet! Or at least until we get our mistress back to full health and walking around our halls! April?"

"Sir!"

"Hurry and make some more Pepper Up potions and Blood Replenishing Potions!"

"Yes, sir!"

...What the hell?

Oh.

Oh lord.

Death, the bastard alright. So as the price for being negligent on his own terms - a part of Harry had agreed with him in great reluctance - Death had sent Harry back in time...the same era as he had wanted, but as a baby. The adult in Harry's mind groaned in -annoyingly- amusement but also in frustration. His mistake had accosted him around two decades. One of which would he spend getting brought up by the current family - Aviors - and the other, his metaphorical self groaned, in some magical schooling - which was most likely Hogwarts. He scowled. Schooling with Tom Riddle, huh? _Wonderful._

* * *

So he had discovered, with the abundance of information he had overheard and deducted, that his mother's name was Antare Avior, and her sister - his aunt, was named Ashyr Avior. Throughout the many gatherings of the family he had been brought to, the many voices were too much for him to single out who was whom, and who was referring to whom but through out the months, he had figured out some maids, butlers and...tutors that handled him and his branch in the family - the main branch.

His features didn't seem to change so much; his hair was still dark, and skin was still pale. The most prominent change he would say, were his eyes which were no longer the green of his previous mother's. They were light blue, although he suspected they would grow darker in time - descending into royal blue, perhaps.

His days of a baby consisted of him sleeping, eating and pooping. So dull but at least time passed rather quickly, or quicker than he would have thought. Harry - or rather, Balthazar had been born in a family of Aviors - a reclusive, pureblooded family with no alliances on either the light nor dark. Although their Grey ordeals have avoided them much less confrontations and bloodshed then aligned families, it meant that their allies were half as few, but it was not as if the prestigious yet isolated familia needed help, not at all.

It was to his despair when he had learnt that since he was the first heir in a series of miscarriages, and therefore, it was their duty to take care of him with utmost delicacy but also train him into some kind of insane prodigy of the arts - whether be it magic, physical combat or literature. An insane prodigy he was not - no, he wasn't a patient man; nor ambitious either. Being depraved of literature in his earlier years with the Dursleys hadn't helped him in the sense of a need to read, but made him feel alienated and unmotivated when the words peered back of him.

The annoying feeling of down within his heart are only amplified whenever he had stared at the small text huddling near each other within a wide page of an ancient tome. The fact that Riddle's first horcrux had been a book, and one that tried to kill him at that, didn't alleviate matters any more, only dragging them down in his opinion.

He frowned as he played with a pile of wooden, antique blocks distractedly, unaware of the cooing from hidden maids in charge of guarding him. No, his almost-borderline-phobia for books. That was something he would need to rectify, if his education plan he had spied from the tutors were anything to go by. Already feeling worn out and tired, Balthazar let out a small sigh, ignoring the giggles that sounded behind some statue, and claims that he was adorable. He wasn't adorable. A thirty year old as a baby was far from so.

* * *

"Sit up straight. Read chapters twenty-three to forty-five. No complaints; and sit up properly or there _will_ be consequences. A five minute break is allowed after every ten chapters read."

Were the orders that he had to abide by every second morning, after a nutritious breakfast, by his literacy tutor. Balthazar restrained a sigh and a glare of contempt towards where the tutor sat; comfortably on a chair, as if on a throne. Classy, aristocratic. He didn't know whether to be reluctantly jealous or despise the man. A second spared glance with his improved vision - a family bloodline, apparently - allowed him enough of a once over for the tutor, of whom went by the name of Lauchlan Demedeiros. The said man had blood red hair and pale, green eyes. He had a sharp, aristocratic face that was dulled by a seeming warmth of his features.

The middle aged man _was_ handsome, as Balthazar grudgingly admitted so to himself. Eyes returning back to the thick, dark tome at hand, the boy's eyebrows slanted in annoyance as he elegantly attempted to open up to his progress within the book - one of prominent light and dark wizards in history and a dash of grey. The book's cover was lowered upon the desk with a soft _thud_ as Balthazar adjusted himself on the ivory seat.

He straightened his back before fidgeting his collar ever so slightly - his new and refined penguin tuxedo coat sticking crisply into his skin. Stylish? Of course. Functional? Not at all.

Resuming his reading, Balthazar found it difficult not to zone out from the almost dull, drone. He didn't become Master of Death for this. This wasn't on the papers. He didn't sign up for this. He caught his eyelids drooping before the tutor had, thankfully - lest he spent another time lecturing Balthazar on the importance and symbolism of magical history. He was five, for goodness sake but that was something Balthazar refrained from voicing.

He had doubted Lauchlan would be very sympathetic to his pained pleas. Knowing the bastard from his lessons, his tutor would probably have some kind of sadistic pleasure in seeing him squirm and slowly die in boredom of_ 'Ye' Olde History'. _Balthazar assumed that the vast piece of literature had not become of an instant classic because of its riveting tales and amazingly rapt story telling, but because of the sheer frankness and factual, unbiased aspects of it in itself. Impressive, but literally first word on, Balthazar could feel his mentality fading.

The book was sapping his life juices slowly, he just knew it.

* * *

His practices continued daily when every time he became older, the list of 'training' the Aviors intoned on him increased evermore.

Today, it was a month after he had turned seven.

Balthazar was happy when his mother and aunt had heartily greeted him - they were both kind, beautiful and graceful, yet still holding a deadly edge. When asked, he followed them and some butlers into a hallway, only to stop at opened double doors. The trickling and running of water caught his ears and as his eyes stared downwards, he saw a long, thin and shallow pool of flowing waters. He tilted his head in curiosity, black locks falling slightly in front of his eyes. The pool's length was around ten metres however the width was no more than too.

Concentrating on the shadows the ripples produced, it was deducted that the depth was approximately sixty centimeters. Having finished his silent observation, Balthazar looked up inquiringly to his mother, an eyebrow raised in question. She smiled, however he couldn't pin point _ what kind of smile_ it was.

"You are to take off your pants and stay in your boxers. Also take off the outer layer of your suit and place them both _neatly _and _folded_ upon this bench." His mother started, placing her hand gently upon a beautifully crafted bench. He nodded in compliance, but stayed silent - waiting for what she has to say. Patience, as it was, was regarded highly within the family - a beautiful virtue, his aunt had claimed.

His mother looked towards her sister, who nodded, expressionless, before smiling.

"You are to walk within these waters from the start to finish for half an hour with a ten minute break as an interval, and five minutes within that interval you will walk alongside the pool and back, before re-entering the pool once more. This is to be repeated twice within a day, and everyday henceforth. Whether you are within or outside of the pool your back will be straight, and your head will be held up high, but not pretentiously so. Understood?"

Balthazar nodded in silence, eyeing the waters.

Sensing his enduring questioning - as to _why_ he was going through this, his aunt elaborated further.

"It is to make your form more graceful; for your movement to flow, as if giving the illusion of your free flowing movement; so graceful and ethereal, as if through water; however, on land. All Aviors are to endure this training; although one would hardly call it so. It is simplistic in the most difficult sense; of where it is facade that is easy to play, but hard to master. Are we clear?"

"Yes." The boy spoke, blue eyes emotionless on the outside, but he did feel a bit of excitement.

"Good. Proceed onward, as your training starts now." Her slipped out her wand before waving it in the air; an intricate and delicate pattern with grace he would only wish to have, before producing a golden bell.

She smiled before placing it upon the bench.

"Use this if you require any help, or if you are feeling too desolate. Now, go on!"

Nodding, Balthazar shrugged off his black pants and tuxedo-jacket before folding them neatly and placing them systematically upon the bench - just as he had been instructed before slowly and carefully lifting himself into the pool. He frowned, feeling the pressure and light strain of water as he tried to drag his legs as naturally as he could within the substance before sighing.

Nothing was easy in this family. Nothing ever.

* * *

He was now eleven and eagerly awaiting for his letter of acceptance from Hogwarts, the school he had chosen under the many lists his mother had produced; although he appreciated the various physical and mental training he was provided with, they were all time consuming and took up around ninety-nine percent of his daily schedule, the one percent being dinner, lunch, breakfast and shower before going to bed. The tasks he was set up with were all odd but also, oddly helpful as well. They weren't very blunt; there were many instances where he had to look within an inception of underneaths to actually gather _why_ he was being made to do such chores.

No training had been blunt, no. _Especially_ the physical combat training...with weapons. Balthazar shivered, his body remembering various stab wounds and near deaths his combat tutor had inflicted upon him - a seemingly insane, but brilliant witch by the name of Xiao Fung; whose name deceives her prowess in other things than fighting, causing people to heavily underestimate her understanding of the English language. Most of whom were prejudiced and stereotypical.

It was something that he hadn't discovered until he was eight; that _apparently _one of the most prominent reasons as to why other wizarding families had looked down upon the Aviors were the fact that not only do they specialize in dueling with magic, they were also incredibly skilled likewise with physical combat. Now that, Balthazar could appreciate; the reasoning and logic behind knowing both physical and magical infliction appealed to him. It was a heavy advantage to have; when and if one of the two elements had been eliminated within the situation, the Avior would be less than helpless - unlike most wizards who relied heavily, if not completely on their magic.

His other training unmentioned previously were:

- Washing dishes with minimal water and at night to promote patience and stealth

- Stepping on foliage with trapped dumb bombs like mines that were sensitive to sound and vibrations. Which meant he had to find a way to avoid the foliage or a way to step on the lesser of great evils. Repeated training of this left him a broken man.

- Going into ball parties with his aunt, who had also been forced, out of pure politeness and respect.

- Greeting various scheming politicians and being a general servant whenever his family held sophisticated but dead boring parties

- Weapon maintenance; not as cool as it sounds. Even when he had received a few choice and necessary gifts of weapons; arm blades, specialized footwear with daggers and wand holsters, being thrown into a room full of sharp and deadly metals really taught him how to be extra careful with unexpected, piercing edges of what he _thought _to be the blunt sides. _  
_

- Magical dueling; where Lauchlan wiped the floor every time, occasionally giving out pointers but mostly just taking pleasure in such easy defeats, but even a bruised and beaten Balthazar couldn't deny the helpfulness and his improvement with dueling, although it would be decades before he mastered such amazing arts as wandless magic.

- Potions; a subject, like analysis of literature, where he didn't excel in at all and the only reason he had been able to craft reasonable potions were all kudos to his tutor - April Williams, a half-blood and intermediate apprentice in the art of potion making and potion theory.

He had also received his given wand; eleven inches, dogwood with phoenix feather core. An odd combination although it felt suited for him, but not as suited as the elder wand had been. He sighed, fingering the wand in his hand. The wand should be in Grindelwald's hands soon enough. He would have to rectify that matter; but Balthazar was unsure as to how that was going to be executed, as he has no where near the power to defeat Grindelwald one on one at the moment, so he decided to just forget about that matter altogether.

* * *

His letter of Hogwarts' attendance had arrived, much to expectation and lack of surprise for everyone in the family. Nothing changed within the next few days, besides the sudden elevation of his training which left him too tired to do anything but eat, sleep and shower afterwards.

Because of his mother's need of appearance within an important family meeting on the looming war and tensions rising, it was his aunt who offered to take him shopping for the school supplies his family didn't already have.

So it was with his aunt did Balthazar find himself traversing with in a not-so-different-looking Diagon Alley, eyeing around for candid goods and necessary materials.

When they arrived at an expensive looking bookstore, Balthazar's eyes widened in shock at the expensive prices before scowling - _ripoffs, the lot of them!_

His aunt, however, looked at the prices without batting a lash before placing them into the basket Balthazar was carrying in his arm.

"Why can't we just buy second handed books?" Balthazar asked his aunt, a small, inquisitorial frown on his face. "It's much more cheaper and I don't see what the difference in superiority would be; besides the quality. That of which I wouldn't need for my grades."

She chuckled, a small, delightful smile playing upon her dark-rose lips. "Nonon, my dear Balthazar. Though we are a small familia of wizard and witches, we still have an image to upkeep. It would not do for the Aviors, a pureblooded family, if their only heir in decades of still-borne were to arrive at Hogwarts with mere,worthless seconds, no?"

Before he could conduct a retort to her rhetorical question, she continued.

"Non, it would be a disaster indeed." She sighed dramatically, feigning sadness.

He sent a skeptical look to his aunt before concentrating on dodging the flood of adults and children; obviously purchasing to prepare their children for their entering of the magical school. When they decreased and when it required less of his concentration to dodge the infinite bags, purses and carts, he replied to her comment.

"I never knew that purebloods would be easily provoked; so as to see a mere used book and deem the whole family of such to be incompetent?" He murmured, eyes directly ahead.

"Ah, but that is life, yes? They see you and think you to be incompetent, but alas you would also have what they want. So instead of careful negotiation they go on to threaten you because you are deemed weak. Although, as Aviors, we would easily set them in their place, but what trouble it would be! And to raise their shackles; dangerous footing indeed." Ashyr laughed, before continuing on in a more serious note, her eyes surveying their surroundings.

"Balthazar," she spoke in a steady, quiet tone. It was so much more serious than her general carefree muses, and it set him on his edge. Interested, his ears perked up as he tentatively listened to what she had to say. "Our family has been neutral since the beginnings of our creation, no?"

He nodded slowly, staring at her from the corner of his eye and wondering if her simplistic question was a trap.

"Not once have we diverged," she carried on after seeing his brief nod. "Although along with our being neutral, centuries ago, our history was marred with bloodshed and desperation. In war," she chuckled darkly, "No one is safe, no neutral person forgotten. We are all required to shed blood to some pretentious lords' names, but as the years passed, our retaliation and prowess for battle in magic and metal has shown our true alliances to even those who were blinded with greed. So we backed off into the shadows, and so did our names and status."

She turned to him sharply, her fuchsia eyes piercing through his royal blues.

"Do you know why I am telling you this, now, Balthazar?"

He stared up at her, stunning blue covered by slicks of uncontrollable, dark locks of hair.

"You want me to hide my skills. To avoid confrontation." He replied stiffly.

She nodded.

"In the bluntest sense, yes." Ashyr smiled, eyes soft. "You are very skilled, Balthazar - far from the strongest, but not far enough for them to disregard you as not a threat. Even in a place like Hogwarts, there are hierarchies you must climb, and although we wish you not to be the lowest, it would be a wise choice to remain in the center. Grey, like our magical affinity."

Balthazar frowned, but after a while of deliberation, nodded to her ever softly when he saw the logic in her words, and more. This was the era of Tom Riddle; gaining his attention, even like this, would result in deadly consequences.

* * *

**Random chapter preview:** Year one of Hogwarts and beyond!

He took down the monster, but it had been close - a corpse of a large arachnid. He was panting, his eyes were wide, and therefore shocked when he had heard the other student pipe up.

"Wow! That was amazing!" She yelled and almost fawned. She sounded hyper. Probably from the adrenaline of a near death situation, Balthazar deducted as he slowly contemplated his options, the sharp, assassin's blades were still activated and protruding from his arms.

Deciding with finality his decision at hand, he raised his wand pointing it towards the unfortunate girl who was still squealing praises.

"Thank you for saving me! I was so scared! Where on earth did you learn th-"

_"Obliviate." _


	2. Entrance

**Chapter 2: Compression of Time**

* * *

**AN: **Wouldn't exactly thank you guys on _'all'_ the feed back, but I am happy that at least some people are reading this story.

**Story Notes:**

1) If you are impatient, you _may _skip to Balthazar (Harry)'s entrance of Hogwarts, but that would be balls and you will receive a metaphorical slap to the face.

* * *

_His temper wasn't controlled. Through his rebirth and new vessel it was even likely the flares had gotten worse. He couldn't keep a cool head about anything, and with a practiced eye, he was nothing more than a sitting duck. He was an emotional being although he goes through much to hide it. He needed help. He needed to get stronger. And the pull of magic calls to him evermore, and with realization his eyes open. A figure of himself stands in front of him and they survey each other. He opens his mouth to ask a question._

* * *

.

He had arrived home with books and an owl in tow - of a snowy colour and beautiful, topaz eyes; a male owl that reminded him painfully of Hedwig. Balthazar had named it Pitaya because of its...also, stunning similarity to dragon fruit, much to his amusement.

To his surprise, the instance he had taken care of all the items and placed the books in his semi-prepared trunk, had Balthazar been immediately called in by Xiao Fung, his tutor in physical combat and weapons expert extraordinaire .

Apparently, it was a preparation duel; or that's what he had gathered with the few words his tutor had murmured to him. Preparation for Hogwarts? Sure, from his past experiences, it wasn't the most friendliest - nor safest of places, but it wasn't as if a last battle against his mentor (Balthazar just knew he was going to get the floors wiped from him) would do any help. Still, nonetheless, out of respect and discipline, he found himself armed to the teeth and walking towards the training grounds. Because his form was lithe and on the more smaller side the weapons he held were mostly, if not all, covered beneath armbands and other pieces of clothing.

One of his favourites were the arm and elbow blades flattened against each arm, which, to a mere sequential twitch of his fingers, would activate and spring from their binds; deadly, stylish and functional. Some of the other hidden weapons were beneath the flat of his boots; a short dagger-sword embed through a holster upon his right thigh, out of sight kudos to the crisp penguin-coat-suit he was assigned to wear; it was black of shade with gold buttons and weavings, making him look a mixture of a pirate and aristocrat.

Perhaps he was vain, but it was a look he certainly approved of. Silent and composed.

To his left, his black-and-gold-belt respectively carried a hardened leather sheath of a fencing sword; one of the only types of swords that would suit his form; no matter how much he had appreciated the claymores. In time though, he had grown fond the underwhelming weapon; Balthazar would be disappointed to part with it when he was to enter Hogwarts - it was just too obvious a threat to sneak in, not to mention attention from his peers and teachers; something both his family and himself did not want to attract.

Having arrived at the training grounds, the tension was high as he circled around his tutor and vice versa. There was no time for talk; such petty acts, considered Xiao Fung, should only be practiced after the decided outcome of the fight, not before.

Walking calmly in fluid steps, Balthazar lifted his chin a fraction higher; showing confidence in his abilities and not the fear of failure embed into him. Which, ironically, was frequent when fighting with his mentor, as he had yet to win a battle against the skilled warrior-assassin. Unsheathing the fencing sword slowly from its hold, he looked warily at her weapon.

It was uncharged with razor-bladed magic. For now. Her gift for being able to channel magic into her weapons - an old and ancient use of chakra, she had told him vaguely - was what he feared the most from her; each blow, when charged with magic, is amplified almost a thousand-fold; able to shatter the hardest of stone and slice through hard metals as if the substance was as soft as butter.

Balthazar shuddered. He had lost account of how many replaced weapons he had to commission before scowling. The blades he had ordered after the last training were custom made with beautiful and intricate patterns dedicated to the praise of the Avior familia; with wings of feathers and flowers. But he doubted his battle-tutor gave a shit; she would shatter the sentimental weapons without a second thought, or care.

_ 'I would have to be much more careful' _He warned himself, eyes determined.

Suddenly and without a word, Balthazar dashed towards the danger, slicing left and right; predicting movements and possible places where Fung would dodge to however his movements were countered when she flipped upon her hands and easily kicked his flurry of attacks away before summer-saulting and landing on her feet elegantly and with not even a displacement of hair, nor evidence that suggested exhaustion from the physical feat.

They circled each other once again.

Concentrating on her muscle movements Balthazar once again raised his blade to the height of his heck, pointing it, issuing a silent challenge. One of pride, and will to win.

Then the first hit came; it was of a small hand-blade, but he really wouldn't call it that. The sharp metal circled around her hands, almost like a gangster's brass knuckles would. The attacks were light weight, not even phasing the flexible blade of his fencing sword as she danced around; features alight with playful superiority. She was smiling now, which meant something was _definitely _up and he didn't like one bit of it, but her attacks were a repetition of consistency and not really pushing his boundaries at all.

It was funny in an incredibly odd kind of way; Balthazar had known the obvious pattern, as he had suffered under its hand numerous times. She would proceed at a steady pace, not increasing or anything and perhaps even growing softer in her slashes. It would lower anyone's security, even unwillingly at times. Their body and senses would get used to a steady rhythm, pattern and pace before their defence shatters entirely.

Then the twenty-third hit came crashing down and Balthazar winced at the force and pressure, immediately attempting to withdraw and kite her around. Xiao Fung didn't allow any reprieve when his mentor ruthlessly spun around, following every single one of his movements in something akin to synchronization; spiraling so fast that her figure blurred, and at times, disappeared completely - only to come close to smashing some vital organ of his.

Her movements and expertise were not unlike a tempest. He closed his eyes briefly as waves of dust attacked his closed-lids before opening them once the winds had settled, not once stopping from his retreat. Balthazar's breath hitched as he saw the crescent-knuckle-blade glinted in the sunlight above him; his mind coming up blank as to how to proceed next, before he thankfully instinctively rolled to his right.

He was startled by a squeal of pain beside him and turned his head to the sound of disagreement, only to find himself face to face with a decapitated rabbit. Gulping, he rolled up and surveyed his tutor's face. No guilt; not that he had expected any. No emotion besides a raised eyebrow, as to ask _'is anything wrong?" _Although it was obvious she knew of her killing seconds ago. He let out a shaky breath.

Even if she was his tutor and had been for years, he was still undoubtedly _frightened _of the battle mistress and one of the main differences he had noticed between her and some of his previous opponents were one, gaping factor; she _never _hesitated and he found himself surprised at his continued existence.

Truly terrifying, indeed.

Finally getting back to reality after a split second of faltering, Balthazar felt a whoosh of air behind him. Attempting to turn around, all he was met with was searing pain to his back; between his neck and right shoulder. It was white agony; so hot and burning that for continued time it felt ice cold. He felt himself paralysed in pain and unable to fight back before a hit on a temple of his head fell him altogether.

* * *

Balthazar woke up with a soft groan, coughing when he felt dust enter his system. Sitting up carefully and slowly, he massaged his temples and other sore areas before looking around and surveying his location and circumstances that came with it. Eyes taking in his surroundings, it was confirmed that he was _still _in the training grounds before all the information and memories returned back to him.

He spied out his tutor sitting idly on a log two metres from him, cleaning one of her shivs of blood and barely stopped himself from snorting.

Frankly, he wasn't surprised that the two final hits she had delivered to him were powerful enough for him to black out and even have momentary memory loss. Forcing himself to squat up before slowly and shakily standing, he hastily checked his weapons and their state; his tutor didn't take kindly to failure, and his loss by lack of concentration would have been a great offense indeed and thus, perhaps one or more of his weapons were destroyed as compensation.

It had certainly happened before.

Quickly activating both of his hidden blades, he was both shocked and thankful that they were intact and as good as ever, ignoring ripping of high-quality, but dirtied fabric as they slid out and back in. In his peripheral vision Balthazar saw his mentor give an amused _hmph _when he went on to check every other weapon in his arsenal on his body, only to find them - in his shock- all in pristine and unabused conditions.

He twirled around, facing Fung. The only expression giving away his surprise were the slight widening of his eyes; pretty wisps of blue and green in full display.

"You didn't break them." He stated softly, not wanting to offend her in any way, particularly by the underlying assumption that had she not broken them, she was a weak-willed fool.

"I should have," Fung replied conversationally, tilting her head, her expression indiscernible.

"...Thank...thank you." He offered awkwardly, the tension easing slightly when his tutor nodded in acceptance.

It was a few minutes of silence before he looked around and sat down on a log near her, hands kneading on the dead-sharp bark, feeling the rough surface splinter against his fingers, but he gave no mind to that. A few minutes more of silence and he was starting to get uncomfortable and paranoid - perhaps this was a test? If so, then it would be one of...patience. Balthazar groaned on the inside.

Patience. One of his greatest weaknesses, really. But to be on the safe side, he stopped his insistent moving and tapping of his feet, nor the fiddling hands upon the separating pieces of the park from the fallen tree.

"Judging by your behaviour, neither your mother nor your family has told you about what's going to happen."

Balthazar stopped his inner musings, looking up to her sharply, eyes hardening. When his tutor looked as if she wasn't going to go on further without is input, he moistened his lips before starting to speak.

"...of what?" His voice was quiet, curious and suspicious.

"Of my leaving, of course."

Unable to hold the mask on any longer his eyes widened noticeably this time.

"What!?" By his tone, it was both a statement of shocking exclamation of questioning; asking her to explain herself.

She closed her eyes as she would when she meditated, looking as peaceful as ever.

"Of course you would have forgotten," he heard her reprimand. "When your tutors were first introduced, had you not heard that under no circumstances, were we permanent nor tied underneath the family's boundaries?"

When he had said nothing at that, she continued, her voice smooth and to the point.

"Now that you seem to be at least passable in physical combat and knowledge in weapons and assassination - which are skills extremely uncommon, even within purebloods, I will go my own path. I, too, have jobs to be done and things to be taken care of."

But of course she had. He just forgot; that he wasn't the only one in the world.

And that he wasn't the sun.

So everything didn't revolve around him.

When she noticed his silence, he saw Fung pull a decorative looking bag from behind the log as she strapped it upon herself; looking as if she was set to leave this instant.

Before she could have walked another step further, however, he yelled out; and he just couldn't believe this to be a reality.

"Wait!"

She paused in her steps.

"Are you honestly leaving now?"

She nodded, before a misunderstanding of _something _sparkled into her eyes.

"If you are looking for a parting gift..." She began, before Balthazar hastily spluttered and cut in.

"No! That's not what i mea-"

"...Then mine would be the hope and belief that you would stop seeing yourself as the soldier, the warrior that you are not."

Now that, was unexpected.

Even though her comment was ambiguous and could have been interpreted in many ways, his pride still burnt, and his eyes flared; a slow frown etching his face.

"If you're so sure, then what am I!?" He demanded. Not a soldier? The way she had said it; as if the war was nothing. As if he had suffered for nothing. The way she seemed to dismiss his existence itself. Oh, _his fury washed and burnt on the inside; his throat felt close to combustion, and yet he could say no more. He was livid, and yet he could not bring himself to act so. _If only she had known.

And with those words, she disappeared with a cruel, lop-sided smile, a salute and a loud _POP _of apparition.

* * *

Slipping into the cool, silky sheets, Balthazar cast a warming charm before absently dropping his wand upon the desk. He groaned to himself, feeling tears pool within his eyes; not because of any emotions but merely because of just how _exhausted _he was, not to mention his apparently minimal - although still existent - allergy to dust.

After the ambiguous goodbye from Xiao Fung, Lauchlan had immediately greeted him from behind before apparating them to a stone hallway, full of thick, granite pillars. They dueled as well, but Lauchlan was there to stay; much to Balthazar's relief. However, the most disconcerting thing to him was not the fear of abandonment; but just how _much_ he was lacking in all aspects. Even along the excuse of a new body, he had years to adjust, and what he couldn't do with his current physical capacity; he should still have received some boons from his previous life.

So, yet, why? Why did he, whenever facing an opponent of challenge - and especially Lauchlan, did he feel so weak? He felt ashamed to know that the younger wizard would still have defeated him if he was still in his mid-thirties.

A bile taste washed from his throat at the information he found hard to swallow. He didn't have a choice; Balthazar realized. He didn't have a choice, and he never did. His pride had blinded himself; it had coiled around his mentality, hiding his weaknesses from his eyes, even when they were at the most obvious peaks.

_The Sin of pride. A mistake is all it takes to destroy anyone, in any way. _

Clenching his eyes shut even more, he willed himself to think about nothingness, relaxing when he saw closed-eye hallucination of darkness and dancing colours and shifting shapes and forms flow around him. After a while, a small smiled etched unknowingly on his face as he fell into peaceful slumber.

Sleep _does_ seem to make everything better.

* * *

_"Then, what am I? A monster?"_

_"Perhaps yes, perhaps not. But you know what you are definitely not?"_

_"Oh?"  
_

_"Human."  
_

_"Elaborate."_

_There was silence._

* * *

He stood by himself at the train station nine and three-quarters, holding onto a feather-light-charmed case of all the necessary items he had needed, with his owl and his owl's cage held with his other hand. He wore his normal uniform; the same, white-suit undergarments along with a dark, clinging vest beneath his Hogwart's robe and still had every other weapon - besides his fencing sword - on his person. Feeling oddly nervous and overwhelmed at the abundance of people and crowds, his height felt minuscule in comparison to the various parents and students. He fiddled with the covered blades

The reason that he had been alone was for the fact that he had refused help of transportation to Hogwarts from his mother, then his aunt, and almost every one of the family members he had. Them, feeling a bit put off at his 'ungrateful attitude' had only allowed him to go by himself so that perhaps, when he gets lost by means of travel, he would learn lessons as to refuse helping hands.

Unbeknownst to them, he had decades of experience before him. Drawing in a familiar feeling, Balthazar focused with intense concentration on his core and let the pulling sensation expand; he stayed there for a whole five seconds before managing to - thankfully - _successfully _apparate rather inconspicuously at the platform.

Holding up his right hand, he gazed down to check the time. Twenty minutes before the parting, Balthazar boarded the train, walking smoothly in the thin hallway between different compartments. He sent out soft waves of magic in helping him sense if a compartment had already been taken; and if he was desperate, just how many people situated within the room. Balthazar stiffened when he felt pulsing, yet twisted power. It was already significantly tainted, but how? He kept away from the curtained windows in the unlikely chance they would _somehow _spot his presence and become suspicious at his loitering.

Twisted; however not in the sense of _evil_, just...misuse. Which meant that the student had been recently acquainted with wand-work and _proper _magic itself but had survived their growth up until now using _controlled, purposeful _accidental magic. Knowing no wizarding family would actually let their child go through with such misconduct, he would have assume that the one in the certain carriage was either a muggle or...an orphan.

Deciding he could pursue the curious subject at later hand, he found various empty cabins suspiciously surrounding the one containing the enigma. It was to his curiosity; seeing as most compartments were packed and many others - including these ones should have been packed already...then again...perhaps the other wizards had subconsciously sensed the alien, looming threat and unbeknownst to themselves, had situated themselves away from the source altogether.

_Curious. So very, very curious._

Sliding the compartment diagonally forwards from the other, occupied compartment, Balthazar opened the door with an elegant and practiced flick of his wrist, he took his case and own into the space within him, disregarding the racks above the carriages. He placed his case down in front of his legs and his owl to his right as he seated himself in the furthest corner on the cushioned seats, his head resting on the knuckle of his left hand as he leaned against the window; watching as the Hogwarts train departed towards its destination.

When he felt old memories resurface he shook his head and once again concentrated on the passing landscapes with forced and focused interest.

* * *

The trip had been as boring as ever as he stayed silent whilst staring at landscapes. Nothing of interest happened, besides saying a polite 'No, thank you' to the lady pushing the candy cart - he had better things to spend his bag of galleons on - and of course, stopping his randomized day dreaming once in every half an hour to feed his familiar, Pitaya, owl treats; a consistent bribe that seemed much more like blackmail for the owl to stay silent, content and to _not _cause a ruckus and draw attention.

He zoned out so much that by the end Balthazar almost hadn't noticed the train stop at Hogwarts. Packing up his things, Balthazar walked out of the carriage, hearing an identical slick of a compartment opening behind him. Trying not to stiffen at the possibilities of a looming threat, Balthazar attempted to make his form as relaxed as possible and hopefully not overplaying it at the same time.

Balthazar settled into a comfortable pace and with the Hogwarts robe flowing around and behind him and the soft _'clacks' _of his footsteps made it all the more easier to ignore the looming presence behind him. And yet he was almost _afraid _to turn around; the implications exciting him; the danger tantalizing and intoxicating.

If the..._boy _was who he's assuming it to be... He felt goosebumps form on his covered arms as a small, exhilarating smile ghosted upon his lips. His fingers wrapped tighter around Pitaya's cage handle. Yes; _Tom Riddle _indeed; the core felt similar, almost identical to Voldemort's, although his older counterpart was _ever so incomplete, _yet undeniably _extremely, unbelievably _powerful.

He reached outside the carriage, attempting not to pause as he stepped elegantly down the stairs; he really didn't want to be close to his ex-nemesis and even as of the moment it still felt too close for his comfort. As he followed the other first graders in guidance of _professor _Kettleburn, he allowed himself on the carriage of the most ordinary group he could have found; those who would have most likely landed in Hufflepuff or even Ravenclaw; the most neutral of the four houses.

Ignoring the odd looks from the other students as he was the only one who still carried his luggage with him - as he was unwilling for his to be monitored by the staff - he instead vied for staring at the ethereal thestrals pulling the carriages and stroking Pitaya through the cage bars. He got off the carriage last and once again, followed the leading first years trailing behind who he spied to be a much younger version of Dumbledore. They were lead to small boats where groups of four were to be situated.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, and as the eager first years swarmed onto choice boats, he absentmindedly stepped into the first one that seemed available; two lone ducks, face features unrecognizable and therefore most likely muggleborn or not from prominent wizarding families. It was an extremely tight fit along with his luggage and he sensed both annoyance and discomfort radiating from the other two students, however paid no mind to it.

For a second after he had settled down, it had seemed as if the boat ceased to work under the weight; even creaking ominously before slowly and steadily making its way towards the Hogwarts entrance with two professors who stood in greeting outside the open doors, as if to physically block the excited and hyperactive students from just instantly running in.

Waiting on everyone to go in first, he placed his owl cage down before grabbing his wand and placing an intermediate notice-me-not charm upon both the case and owl cage. There was a chance that it would slip even Dumbledore's notice, as hopefully he seemed like the ordinary student, however he wouldn't put it pass the old man to immediately spy the displacement upon his person, but the torrent of students were in his favor.

Smiling, he picked up his cases once more before walking calmly inside the magnificent halls of Hogwarts. Time to keep impressions up, and his head down.

His eyes spotted the sorting hat. He raised his brow; wondering how his turn would turn out to be, and most curiously of all; just what house would he be placed into? Then again, he already had plans as to just what house to go into.

He saw its mouth open and snorted lightly, bracing himself for its song.

* * *

_Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_  
_But don't judge on what you see,_  
_I'll eat myself if you can find_  
_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_  
_Your top hats sleek and tall,_  
_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_  
_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_  
_The Sorting Hat can't see,_  
_So try me on and I will tell you_  
_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_  
_Where dwell the brave at heart,_  
_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_  
_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_  
_Where they are just and loyal,_  
_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_  
_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_  
_if you've a ready mind,_  
_Where those of wit and learning,_  
_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_  
_You'll make your real friends,_  
_Those cunning folks use any means_  
_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_  
_And don't get in a flap!_  
_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_  
_For I'm a Thinking Cap! _

* * *

During the song and trusting his wandwork, he silently tread behind a pillar to place his items before quickly giving Pitaya five consecutive treats and casting the strongest notice-me-not charm as he possibly could. After that deed was done, he once again stepped the first years, blending in like sheep.

After the students laughed merrily and clapped along, the first graders were ushered forward before a line, where Albus Dumbledore pulled out a ridiculously long parchment before reading out the names.

"Zack Anne."

For a moment there was silence, but a second later a small, meek looking boy was stumbling his way through the midst of the hall and made his way to the sorting hat, an embarrassed flush colouring his freckled cheeks. Balthazar saw the child absently wipe his gold locks of hair away before placing the Sorting Hat upon his head.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" The hat rumbled. There were clapping and cheering from the Hufflepuff table as they welcomed their newest member.

Three other members more; Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Slytherin.

"Balthazar Avior!" Dumbledore called out.

Eye twitching slightly at the sudden, uncalled for attention and silence, he nodded in recognition towards Dumbledore's direction, eyes closing briefly; a sign of respect, before he walked smoothly and confidently towards the Sorting Hat sitting innocently upon the stool. Half way there, he felt soft wind weave through his soft locks of hair, blowing away his fringe ever so slightly and revealing stunning, blue-green eyes.

He ignored the action before lifting the hat, then turning around to face the great hall before placing it upon his head and sitting down neatly at the same time, face blank and eyes lidded. Forcing his senses back, he waited politely for the Sorting Hat's perusal inside his head.

'He-_oh. Now, what do we have here? How...mental.'_

Balthazar hummed, eyes zoning out from the conversation within his head, a small smirk forming at his lips; an action unnoticed by himself.

_'Do carry on faster,' _he intoned, _'too much longer and people will raise questions.' The sorting hat chuckled. 'Really, though, I am honestly curious. I had thought time travel was an unbelievable feat in itself.'_

_'For wizards, of course.'_

_'Ah, and that is which something you are only part of. Yes, yes. That seems logical enough. Very well, I shall try my best to sort you...once more. Although it would be...difficult to say the least. You have had already been sorted and your mind is an adult; making it a tenfold of a chore it should be. Do you happen to have any preferences?'_

_Balthazar laughed in his head. _

_'Cheating, are we?'_

_'I won't tell if you don't.'_

_He stopped himself just barely before he rolled his eyes._

_'About time. But my preference would be as neutral a house as possible,' he noted._

_'I'm assuming you're referencing the feud of Slytherin and Gryffindor?'_

_'Of course. Perhaps it is hypocritical of me to say this, but I for one have no interest in their petty fights.'_

_'No, of course not; your ambition is too high for that, no?' the Hat taunted._

_'Don't you dare.' _

_'You don't fit in any other houses besides those two you ruled out; although you do have some qualities from all the houses.'_

_'Everybody does.'_

_'Yes, yes. However yours isn't enough for my conscience to arrange you into either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. VERY WELL. I have made my decision.'_

_'Wait wha-'_

_'You will thank me later.'_

The delayed reaction was too late and once the Sorting Hat had made their decision already.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

He froze, then he was aware of all eyes upon him. Some students looked put-off and Balthazar had suspected that he and the Hat had been chatting for much longer than he had garnered for. The hall was awkwardly silent as he placed the Sorting Hat neatly, if not roughly upon the stool, nodding towards the professors in thanks before slowly making his way to the Gryffindor table. Even Dumbledore had looked at him speculatively. He frowned lightly in curiosity.

No one clapped; it was a trip made in silence, but he kept his pride. He held his head high, walking as gracefully has he could manage; back straight, movements fluid before he situated himself in the furthest corner of the Gryffindor table.

For the most part of the sorting, he ignored the chatter around him and only dully noted where other notable or notable parents of notable Death Eaters went. He wasn't surprised at all when almost all of them were landed in Slytherin, and when Tom had paced towards his sorting, he almost felt jealous. Child-Voldemort, even from being raised in an orphanage, has as much class as any of the other pureblooded students; the ones who had received tutelage in specific etiquette, including himself.

It also went without surprise when the Sorting Hat had, after a moment of delay, sorted him into Slytherin.

After the sorting was complete, the extravagant supper flooded the plates upon the tables. He ate slowly, taking his situation into hand. Gryffindor again, huh?

He could deal with that.

Now, all he had to do was remain as neutral as possible.

Before the real storm approaches.

And before he forgets his case and owl.


	3. Wolf, Woof!

**Chapter 3: A Difficult Limbo**

* * *

**AN:** Let's hope I can keep my update schedule up to date. Personal challenge, if you will. To be honest, it was hard for me to write like this; it was a much more different style and I'm normally used to writing one shots but this one is a shot in the dark as it will be much more than, say, ten chapters. But I thought, hey, to make something great, you would have to make something good. And to make something good, you would have to make something alright. And to make something _alright _you would have to start out worse. But of course, you_ will _get better.

I have to say I'm not trying my best in this, nor am I proof reading it as much as I should have; those factors be put to blame if I say so myself. But there's this need for me to write, and at the same time High school doesn't give such luxuries; or rather, the last terms of it certainly doesn't. Although the tests are residing.

**Story notes:** So I had planned out one chapter per year spent at Hogwarts since the story really isn't primarily focused on that, however I soon found that extremely difficult if not impossible to manage; whether I have sudden half-year gaps or when one day would take around five thousand words regardless. Don't get me wrong, I like long chapters, but I've been told too-long chapters intimidate people.

* * *

Breakfast, like within the dorms, were of him spending his time in silence and seclusion. Something of which painted an odd image of the house, with the others boisterously hearty, yelling and cracking jokes. He didn't want to complain about the noise but Balthazar did raise his fingers to massage his temple once every while to ease the headache. He had never been a morning person and rebirth hasn't changed that fact at all. For a moment he fiddled with the symmetry of his maroon-gold tie, making sure it was bilateral; the feat taking several minutes from his morning, but slightly satisfying none the less.

Not feeling the need to eat food as of yet, he decided to concentrate on the intricate details embed within Hogwarts' walls and not to mention the spectacular amounts of detail almost every object held. Balthazar never really appreciated the finer details of the inner castle up...up until now.

Staring at the edges of the mahogany table his fingers rested on, he traced absently the carved scriptures and drawings; so detailed and so anatomically correct and precise, it was a wonder that magic wasn't used within the _carving _and refining of the wood, surprisingly enough, but it did raise quite some merit and bonus points for originality and hardworking craftsmanship. He hummed appreciatively, ignoring some odd looks directed at him from his table.

He didn't make any attempt at joining conversations and in return the Gryffindors settled to ignoring him which he was thankful for. Balthazar consumed his meal in silence, eating in moderation of a variety of foods before drinking the pumpkin juice from his flask and then pulled out his notebook and a quill, doodling nothing in particular. It was from Lauchlan, who had said that practicing drawing was a good starter for developing muscle control in his hands; specifically in preparation for spells that required intricate and precise wandwork.

After around two minutes he observed his doodle in disdain. What he had at first attempted - to draw a bird, looked like shaky lines from a two year old's colouring in book. A little demotivated but not entirely, he kept sketching, occasionally stopping to appreciate some sort of happy accident produced by accidental splotching of the ink from his self-refilling quill. When the breakfast had finished, he reluctantly placed the quill and notebook inside his robe's pocket once again.

He was quite taken with drawing and the arts, even if he was hardly a participant in those aspects, if at all. Seeing the contrast of ink and parchment; feeling the soft reverberations from the contours of the paper to his quill in his hands, it was an addiction, soon becoming an obsession. It was a way to fill his time spent doing nothing or rather, procrastinating.

Sure, he had no skill in it, but that doesn't mean he can't practice and refine his choppy and barely recognisable drawings.

* * *

It wasn't hard to tell, as he walked alongside of the other Gryffindors, that he was sure to be the black sheep - because although he found their obnoxious behaviour ever-so-amusing, it grew old _fast_. Maybe, though, it was at his own fault - although his body is a child's, his mind isn't and even when he feels certain _compulsions _to do something reckless, something stupid, something _illogically dangerous,_ his very own logic and mind would win over and the action or the _thought _of action would be halted, and he would save himself from embarrassment. He still didn't see what motivated the Sorting Hat to place him within Gryffindor yet again. Shouldn't he have changed over the years, enough to garner a house switch? He scowled. Too late to worry about that, he amended.

He looked at his schedule; noting and attempting to remember all his scheduled classes but not so much as trying to photographically memorize it. It was apparent that he had Herbology first with Ravenclaws, followed by Charms with Slytherins...then Transfiguration with...Slytherins and potions...With Slytherins?! _What on earth were they thinking when they had chosen the timetable? Did they not realize- of course they would have realized. _Balthazar scowled. crinkling the paper slightly. _Must be another pathetic attempt at house unity; not that it would ever work, if things are going as they are._

Arriving at Herbology and greeted by Professor Beery; a passionate man of the _arts. _Something which he found off tangent from Herbology of all things.

Before the lesson commenced, he had folded his robes' sleeves over and under his inside, white sleeves then going onto folding them once he had finished, after all, dirt was always a chore to get rid of and even if he could always use magic, he wanted to at least appear presentable.

He shook his head.

Herbology first period of all things; not a fun way to start the day. It was the first lesson, and therefore their professor had focused more on introducing the topic; asking mundane questions and presenting exotic and more-than-likely-to-be-dangerous plants before the students, if only to get them interested in the subject.

However, the class, thankfully, had gone without a hitch for him and a few students whilst the others were haphazardly sprayed with dirt, slime, seeds without mercy from overprotective or over aggressive plants. He made sure to wash his hands thoroughly, shuffling persistent dirt from his nails; the way dirt clung to his skin made him very uncomfortable. It felt like a suction, really and even though he didn't mind getting down on the ground or some mud in a fight or necessary conditions - it was either all or nothing.

The first experience was nothing out of the ordinary; Ravenclaw students being rather civil and polite to Gryffindors and likewise, if a bit more outlandish. He had never been an expert in Herbology nor was he interested in plants, but he did understand its importance and extreme correlation to Potions.

After that lesson and a brief five minute break to collect his thoughts, Balthazar dutifully collected his belongings once more and adjusted his uniform.

He headed over to Charms holding onto a folder containing many pages of lined, thin-but-reliable parchment, a segment of around two hundred pages per class listed. It was compressed and the width was around three inches, the spine of the folder held together by metal rings. Sure, it was a muggle invention, but that was _before _he had traveled back in time; this was personally made upon his own request. In retrospect, it was much more useful than having to go back to his dorm at the end of every lesson to retrieve the books required for the next; or having to carry them carefully because they weren't connected.

Although, if he lost it, it would mean all notes and everything his lessons stood for would be lost. Even if he didn't care about his grades per se, he'd still be quite miffed that his _pretense _of doing work would be abolished so easily. Not that he _planned _on doing work. He smiled as he sat himself down in Charms class, fiddling with his quill; index finger brushing leisurely up and down the smooth, ivory feathers made from an albino peacock's tail.

The man, last name dubbed as Warwick, was a gruff and sour looking middle-aged man with sharp, canine like fangs and voluminous, sapphire hair that settled like that of a lion's mane behind his thin-tipped ears. He didn't wear robes as most of the professors had, but tattered clothes that looked as if they had seen better days - m_uch, much _better days. Balthazar didn't know why he had seemed to develop an instant dislike for the main - '_perhaps it was because of an insistent, nagging feeling or because from the entrance of the Gryffindors, the man still hadn't stopped sneering haughtily at his specific house. Honestly, this has got to be some kind of running record,' _Balthazar huffed to himself.

Professor Warwick had introduced himself and started a brief history and description of the subject, very much like how Beery had. Balthazar imagined this would happen in Transfiguration and Potions as well.

How dull.

* * *

The teacher didn't exactly give him the best impression; Warwick was brash, rude and has a severe lack of empathy; calling students out, dismissing them if they answered the question correctly, however if one were to answer a question wrong, he would ruthlessly tear them apart with his harsh criticism.

Funnily enough, it was only the Gryffindors who were questioned - with what he remembered to be third-grade material, which was hardly fair.

Perhaps, like Snape, the bitter, violent professor had some pitiful back story, but Balthazar wasn't feeling particuarly empathetic that day either, so he settled for ignoring the students and teacher altogether.

When the teacher instructed them to conduct _Wingardium Leviosa _on the feathers provided, Balthazar had already zoned out and started a vague sketch of what he hoped would look like a hippogriff; first lightly sketching out the shapes and then roughly sketching out its form...yes...oh _yes,_ was he getting into this. The wings actually looked like wings for once and if he just adde-

"_AVIOR!" _He heard Warwick bark as all attention turned on him. He lifted his head up slowly but not completely, raising an eyebrow towards the Charms professor. _  
_

"Yes?" He inquired, ignoring the annoyed stares from both houses.

"Yes _sir," _Warwick growled.

Balthazar's eyes widened slightly underneath his locks of hair before an almost hysteric expression appeared on his face. The professor had set him up for this one, he did. He almost snickered in the absurdity of the situation, feeling almost hysteric. Oh, what his '_parent' _would do if she saw him like this.

"There's no need to call me _sir__," _he retorted before mockingly adding, "professor."

Warwick's eyes bulged at the sheer insolence and smugness almost _radiating _from Avior, who kept his eyes level to the Professors; not a sign of fear or regret showing through; just burning flames. First look into the Professor's grey-tone eyes, they had shown shock - perhaps the surprise at a student actually having a back bone, but that quickly wore off, only to be replaced by anger.

The professor was angry at his misconduct. Angry at his lack of decorum. Lack of respect.

And yet Warwick saw no fault in himself; nor the hypocrisy of the situation. Being as old as he was, Balthazar was picky as to who deserved his respect _and _loyalty; and he was not one to quickly give either of them to certain people, and certainly wasn't one to be forced either. No, for once, he would be his own man. So he would stand up to himself, as he had his pride too; consequences be damned.

_'Day one and this place is already a bore,'_ he thought glumly.

* * *

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for such blatant disrespect!" The professor spat, pronouncing each word with deliberate slowness and shaking, as if there was difficulty containing his anger.

Balthazar was sure he saw a vessel in the Charm's professor's forehead bulge conspicuously.

Some Slytherins grinned childishly whilst the Gryffindors gasped, horrified, before turning accusing and hateful glares onto him.

"And...,"

It seemed as if he was going to get a detention as well, Balthazar suspected when Warwick continued, not yet finished in sentencing his punishments.

Then, however, as the mouth formed into a word, suspiciously, the teacher paused, before a deviously cruel smile crossed his rugged face; victorious and gleeful.

"For every charm I list that you cannot perform," his smile seemed to widen at each and every word "an additional thirty points would be deducted and you will gain a detention in correlation."

At that moment, Professor Warwick looked very much like the cat who caught the canary who had gotten the cream.

Balthazar frowned slightly at the demand but not outright - he didn't want to give Warwick the satisfaction of seeing him in turmoil, even if it was for entirely misunderstood reasons. Thoughts were running through his head at the speed of light as the gears turned and spun in his contemplation. The real question was; _was he _really _stupid enough to expose his power in charms - and for being able to conduct spells that were almost physically impossible for the undeveloped magical core of an eleven year old? _His frown lengthened along with his silence as he looked down towards nothing in particular, eyes zoning out for the briefest moment. _And, perhaps, it had been Warwick's goal - to exhaust his magical core so much that he would be physically inept for weeks, or perhaps, comatose? _It was a stupid idea, he berated himself. He could just apologize and get it over with and resume his conduct as a small fish and slink back into the shadows. He felt sweat accumulate behind his collar as more and more eyes fell on him. Soon enough, he had the attention of all the students in his class and as of the current situation, he wanted _nothing more _than to be invisible once more.

'_idiot,' _he berated himself as he allowed himself to wallow in his stupidity for a second before making a swift recovery.

He turned to the professor again, eyes rounding on Warwick.

"And if I don't comply?" He asked, tone cold and even. In the background he could hear derogatory terms being thrown at him from both houses. Except Gryffindors targeted_ him_ specifically whilst most of Slytherin had just laughed at the sheer stupidity and foolishness of Gryffindors. Some stayed silent; to which he was thankful for.

"Then you will _apologize _for your rude behaviour, shut up and only receive three detentions with _me _and you _will _wipe that pride clean...along with another deduction of fifty points."

The class saw a corner of Balthazar's soft lips lift up in amusement before the his eyes concreted, seemingly about to say something. Some students leaned forward to get a better look, and a better listen; oh, was gossip going to spread tonight.

* * *

"Then, I," he murmured, picking himself and his wand up, pushing his chair back with a push of his leg. "Accept," he lifted his wand up, pointing it straight at Warwick's chest. "Your proposal." He finished, chin held high; looking _down _upon the professor.

A sneer of a smile was sent to him from the teacher as Balthazar stood calmly in his spot, ignoring the growing tension in the room and the Gryffindor students' trepidation; they were oh so eager to please. Who would stop that rampaging idiot from losing more points? As far as they knew, their very second lessons and Gryffindor was possibly at a negative!

"Very well." He paused. "Why don't we begin with the levitation charm?"_  
_

He saw through the ploy like clear water; it was a pathetic attempt from Warwick at placing him within yet _another _disadvantage by not saying the spell's names, and just referring to their commonly known functions, but he guessed he would have to comply.

Nodding in a no-nonsense fashion, he weaved his wand through the air, lifting the feather up with ease, eliciting some impressed murmurs from his house. He was completely silent and after a few seconds, so was the entirety of the Charm's classroom.

He heard a faint growl from the professor, but paid it no mention as he stared politely yet condescendingly at Warwick, waiting for another order as the feather drifted back down on his desk. Although, knowing that it would be a bad move, he couldn't help send an egoistically smug smirk towards the professor. He blamed it on all the teenage hormones. _Dark times indeed._

Next came the cleaning charm, bleaching charm, cooling and warming charms, each command steadily growing in difficulty.

When it was obvious that Balthazar wasn't backing off or failing any time soon, the professor paused, wracking his mind for advanced charms he would have the _annoyance of a child_ perform. He didn't care if some were impossible for a first year to know, and furthermore, practice.

Warwick was relying on that. He couldn't be shown up, no. He saw the students look at Avior in shock and awe and he saw the jealousy and disbelief. He growled. He wouldn't lose face.

Not by a useless Gryffindor; with his house full of blood traitors and mudbloods. The difficulty rose by tenfold and yet the blasted Avior still wasn't faltering. That's it, Warwick thought. He didn't care what spell it took; he would take the student _down. _A spell that no first year would know; and even unlikely practiced among the senior years...his eyes widened. Yes. This would be it. He would put the boy in his place.

"The Patronus charm," stated the professor, exterior nonchalant, calm, placid.

Balthazar blinked and his hand twitched as he froze momentarily at the onslaught of memories. Figuratively batting the vintage apparitions away, he cocked his head at the professor before shutting his eyes. This was a bad idea. He would regret it in the end. It would hurt him the most. So why, was he so compliant in doing so? Had he always have had these self destructive, self deprecating behaviour? Knowing he wasn't about to find an answer anytime soon, Balthazar, yet again, pitched the blame upon teenage hormones before getting back to matters at hand.

"As you wish." He replied huskily, voice deeper; seemingly much older than an eleven year old would carry.

He gave a negligent sweep of the class before spotting _a dauntingly familiar face. _Almost freezing up again at the sight of Tom Riddle; who, at first glance, looked nonchalant, but Balthazar could feel slight annoyance at the blatant disrespect he had shown...and a tinge of...was that _jealousy? _Balthazar thought incredulously. Ah, well. No matter now, he guessed.

* * *

It was extremely tactless of him, Balthazar admitted to himself. Tactless with extreme lack of finesse and subtlety; the idiotic, compulsive behaviour and juvenile outbursts he seemed to have retained from his previous life in Hogwarts. _No matter, _he thought once more. T_his may as well be a warning for people looking to target me; I am setting my position and this will show them that I won't stand down to those who I don't respect. _Juvenile, yes, but effective nonetheless.

The Patronus was a light spell. His eyes met Riddle's. _You'd better watch this carefully, Tommy boy. Master Harry's only going to do it just once__._

He smirked towards the to-be Dark Lord before pointing his wand towards Warwick. That's it. He's insane, and there's no cure.

"_Expecto Patronum," _He all but commanded, and then hated himself for it before adamantly ignoring the '_I bloody told you so' _at the back of his mind, his eyes currently occupied by _something else's _appearance within the room - a large, majestic silver dog darted, charging at a white-shocked Warwick before running around the room, huffing jovially; silver wisps flying out from the dog's feet, as if to channel dirt, before it ran towards Balthazar, slowing down to lick its creator.

"...Hello, Sirius." Was Balthazar's pained whisper after a moment of silence, wand lowering. When he reached out, he ran his hand over the corporeal dog's form as if to pat it; and sometimes he just wished to, but he knew he would then be met with nothing but webs of his own magic and desperation.

The dog barked in recognition and sensing no immediate danger, disappeared in wisps of silver.

Mood shifting, he lifted his head towards a still wide-eyed Warwick.

_'How'd that taste?' _He thought bitterly, expression a storm - mood souring by the second. Not waiting for a reply, he collected his belongings before exiting the classroom half an hour early. Thankfully, for their own good, nobody had stopped him. He was angry at himself for unearthing such hidden emotions and cases; any reminiscence of his deceased godfather made his heart ache and body tremble; it tore him from inside out, and he himself were to blame. Eyes shining, he held back tears that threatened to overflow but his face was as emotionless as ever; the maelstrom and spectrum of feelings whirling within him, confined inside a cold-hearted shell.

He continued to walk in a set, fast pace, uncaring for the teachers that may spot him out, or the caretaker that would inflict punishment upon him. His teeth gnashed against each other as he held back screams, his anger and sorrow bubbling hot inside him; the helplessness of that day all coming back to him and he was just so...livid. And it had been his fault; this was all his fault. Balthazar himself had promised Death that he would have no intervention whatsoever; it had been a spur of the moment decision and he had felt oh so empty back then.

In that way, Balthazar had greatly overestimated himself. He had been without temptation for a decade, so why now? Why was it just now, that he was realizing with all his might the overall potential of this situation - the changes he make, he would help so much with his future knowledge, and the people he would sav-

Yet, who was he kidding? He sighed. His impulsive behaviour was getting to him again, and the ambiguity of his loyalty was too bipolar to trust in any sense; he wouldn't be satisfied with choosing a side, and he never would have. So what good would he do, if he were to permanently and publicly align himself as a player for the light? He would gain nothing but trouble, and that was why he had come back here, no? If he were to change anything, and anything at all, it would be done silently and without a trace, he concluded.

He reached the banks of the riverbed but sat down upon a patch of concrete surrounded by grass.

* * *

The river had a pungent scent; as one would smell near fish and the flowing winds had only made it all the more noticeable for his sensitive nose. But it was a fresh smell, so he didn't mind - not at all.

He had decided to skip out on the next two classes he had - Transfiguration and Potions, him being not in the mood for any of the activities nor socializing or being under scrutiny of both Dumbledore _and _Slughorn.

He knew the incident that played out within the charms class was bound to spread; whether from the grapevine or overhearing from professors...god knows. Balthazar also admitted and reluctantly prepared himself for the consequences; telling off a teacher and wagging two classes on his first day - not exactly the best first impression, either. Not that he cared. It wasn't...nothing seemed to hold the appeal it had a few years ago when he was thrust into the life of a candid, spoiled pureblooded child. It was an interesting experiences and it had kept in occupied, but Hogwarts; oh no, Hogwarts was nothing but a repetition and although his escapade with Warwick had sure made him feel some emotion - whether negative or not, the prices to be paid were much more than he was willing to pay for, in more ways than one.

He felt tired and rather unwilling to move his limbs, feeling the strain upon his magical core from his earlier display of impeccable, magical performance in front of both the Slytherins and the Gryffindors. Balthazar stopped himself as his eyes almost slid shut, not wanting to take a nap here and now. It would leave him in a vulnerable position; one that he wouldn't put past Hogwarts' inhabitants to give up, and also for the fact of sabotaging his barely existent sleep schedule. If he wanted to grow to his full, potential height then he would have to be weary as to what nutrients he consumed and slept as much as he could muster.

The blue-eyed boy had situated himself upon a rock as he leaned comfortably against an oak-tree, eyes heavily lidded as he felt the wind play around his hair, enjoying the tingling sensation as the comfort brought a smile to his face. He made a note to check his pocket watch; seeing that only half an hour passed, he knew he would have time to spare. Balthazar frowned when his stomach grumbled but ignored its cries for hunger. If he were to sate it now, he would have to go back inside the school, inside the great hall where he would be reprimanded for his insolence.

He huffed. Hogwarts was slowly becoming more of a prison than an educational system as he was sure he had learned absolutely _nothing _and will continue to do so until possibly the later years of his repeated education. It was precious time spent whilst he was situated in here, but then again, did he have a plan as to what he would do - if he had just run away?

Eyes closed, he huffed in frustration as the logical part of his mind took control. Without his family for him to - and Merlin does he hate to say it - _rely _on, he would be nothing but a beggar of a teenager, paroling the dangerous streets of wizarding Britain and with the looming threat of a war, also taking in account of Grindelwald's expanding forces, running away was just about the most hair-brained idea he had thought of. And yet..but yet...it had some appeal. No, scratch that. It had _so much_ appeal, especially towards his adventurous side. He knew how to handle himself; he knew reasonable magic, he was adept at dueling and he knew how to manage his money.

He had a bag of golden galleons at his disposal and Balthazar wasn't stupid; he knew how to manage money. And with every minute that passed in his seclusion he felt a plan forming within his head regardless of is refusals or attempts to distract himself; his hands remained motionless as he held onto his notebook and quill, his mind working fast. His thoughts then turned towards the Aviors and he felt the foundation shatter - if only slightly. Half of him tried to justify the matter; speaking in seductive tones - '_they're not your real family now, are they?' A traitorous voice crooned. 'You were sent there with disregard by Death - you hold no ties with them.'_

_They helped me - they trained me and had taken me i-_ The deep, dark voice laughed coldly; it was soft, breathless and played beautifully within his ears; the resounding sound felt cool and comfortable within his head. Yet again it was darkly persuasive - _intoxicating_. And he was sure that for all he was worth, that voice couldn't have, wouldn't be...himself. He shook his head, attempting to shake out the mocking, dormant voice within his mind that spoke so loudly, yet so convincingly. He fanned himself by pulling and reclining his robes, creating gusts of cooler pair in the process, soothing his now uncomfortably hot skin. which felt so out of place - shining a pitiful red within the cold weather's snow.

It was one thing he had hated about himself; whenever he had gotten into heated arguments or if he had been flustered at the smallest of aspects, a reproachful heatwave always seemed to send waves of heat through his body, making it extremely uncomfortable and flushing his face; the unwelcome blush only growing brighter and evermore obvious when harboured within his pale complexion. Of course, he could always have placed a glamour upon himself but that would easily make wizards and witches suspicious and looking to see what he's had to hide, which honestly defeats the purpose, not to mention wasting energy and causing more problems in the process.

_Also_ there was the glaring problem of Tom Riddle. Now, although Balthazar was remotely modest, he would be dubbed as a fool if Riddle didn't save that incident into his head; guessing the Slytherin to either search up about his family, or gain a disclosed curiosity that would only rise if Balthazar had not wanted to hold back. He scowled; that would mean he would have to hold back _much _more than he was doing so, if only for Voldemort Jr. to withdraw his attention; and honestly, with the way things are going now, that would mean literally hitting rock bottom in _every _class. Something that he, himself would unwilling to do.

But if he was to somehow maneuver himself to the middle of the ladder however... Yes, that would prove to be the most beneficial, if not a bit difficult to achieve, but once he'd made his spot certain within the midst of the student body, their surge of curiosity for him would dim. If his family would create complications for him for not achieving as they would have wanted him to, then that was just dandy. It wasn't as if they were his - _Harry Potter's - _actual, real family. They were a fake replica and in a way, also a prison for Death t confine him in within his first ten years, before he entered another; Hogwarts.

He groaned. '_Well played, well played, Death.' _He commanded as he clapped his hands sarcastically within his head.

* * *

Enter:_ Tom Riddle._

* * *

It was to his curiosity; the person that had walked in front of him with well-practiced elegance. It was apparent with the silence besides their two footsteps softly thudding against the train's wooden floors. He, Tom had observed, had mid-length, raven-black hair and carried what looked like a heavy case along with an owl. Through the crisp details of his clothing and general appearance, Tom could see that he was of great wealth - or rather, a pureblood, as one of many books had put it. He didn't bring himself to be jealous; through his trips throughout Diagon Alley, he had seen many...spoiled magical children begging of the most outlandish or unnecessary items.

He was surprised, actually, that anyone had the conscience of sitting even in a cabin near him, as he was sure he still excluded a certain aura that repels his peers; and that certain aura had been of his control for almost a quarter of a decade.

They were off the train and walking towards carriages which seemed to be pulled by an invisible force.

Although… He shot his interest a quick look; finally able to get a fine view of the said person's face.

He was beautiful - Tom would give him that; and he was the utmost vain. He had dark hair which contrasted greatly with the pail palette of his skin;. It was beautifully smooth and almost white . His eyes almost seemed to have a daunting glow of energy; as if he held so much power it was attempting to escape from his being. The colour they held were Royal blue mixed with small tinges of green and dark spots within the iris and although they were of an interesting colour, the moment he saw them, they reflected of something that looked like a grotesque horse with wings.

Racking his mind for more information, his mind came to a stop at a certain chapter in Hogwarts - A History. Thestrals, he thought in enlightenment 'it was apparent that one could only see a Thestral if one had not only seen, but accepted a death - or many deaths. If one had seen however hadn't accepted the deceased one, they would perhaps only feel flickers of the Thestral's presence and slowly, as denial starts to fade, does the creature seem to materialize into a physical entity. Through the student's eyes, they were crystal clear.

As if confirming his answer, when he turned to the carriages he was once again met with nothing, but when he turned back, he saw the boy step upon and seating himself on the carriage's seat.

Suddenly more focused on Hogwarts, Tom pushed his knowledge of the mysterious student to the back of his head for later perusal and followed the steps of the other students, getting into a carriage of his own, adamantly ignoring the annoying and hyperactive and excited chattering students. He allowed a small scowl to grace his face, his eyebrows furrowed to show his disapproval and desiderata to not be interrupted or spoken to. Needlessly, the other students - two red heads and a brown-eyed, glassed boy were making enthusiastic conversation whilst showing him minimal interest whatsoever.

Good.

It was easy to ignore the ruckus of the students as he effortlessly zoned out of their petty and tedious conversations. He already knew many things about the school and what it had to offer, as he had done endless research about it over the days he had waited for this moment. He would like to assume that he wasn't completely clueless as to the goings on, but, Tom knew, he would definitely be at a great disadvantage to those who had wizarding heritages, or are even half-bloods. But he wouldn't let that get him down. No, definitely not.

Throughout his days after the discovery of magic and Dumbledore's - he sneered - confirmation, it was a repetitive thought that rung through his head like no other. After all - he smirked - sheer skill, genius and motive would tower over the likes of a few years' more of educational experience. So what if he had not come from a prestigious, pureblooded and ancient family; he was dedicated and his magic _was _stronger than what a normal first-grader, either magical or muggle, would be able to carry.

A cruel, twisted, phantom of a smile edged along the tips of his mouth. Much, _much _stronger. _  
_

When he was waiting along with all the other students in front of his most despised professor; Tom always had a dislike for Dumbledore, perhaps if only because the old man could easily see through his guise and, or his hidden intentions and dark history. There were many instances in his meeting of Albus Dumbledore had he felt slight traces of the old man within his mind, which to his exposure to magic, had miffed him greatly. And so, had he began his research into the two important subjects as occlumency and legilimency.

It was a rather brash and presumptuous of him to think that Dumbledore of all people - who were revered by almost all the wizards and witches he had met, would use such frowned upon practices as legilimency was; and on a minor, no doubt. Ah, well. Being the genius he was, Dumbledore, magic, and that certain boy. He'll find it out, _all in time._

Although, under certain circumstances, he _was _an impatient man. Then again, weren't they all.


End file.
